


The Rifle Didn't Help This Time

by boltshok



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 03:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12424386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boltshok/pseuds/boltshok
Summary: Bluestreak has a panic attack. Plus guns.





	The Rifle Didn't Help This Time

Bluestreak enters his quarters, taking the sniper rifle out of the holster on his back and leaning it against the wall next to the door. He couldn’t think of a time when the rifle wasn’t with him. Even though he was under psychiatric evaluation and Rung’s professional care, Bluestreak had been granted permission to keep the rifle. It acted as a kind of security blanket, and its possession significantly lowers Bluestreak’s panic response when he becomes stressed. The rifle and Bluestreak had been in the war together, and it was the one item Bluestreak trusted above all else.

He shuts the door and sighs, turning on the light. The main room was small, consisting of barely enough space for a single berth and a nightstand. Atop the nightstand was a small monitor, static-filled channel crackling away. The monitor sent a constant feed to several medics in the medbay, in case Bluestreak had a panic attack in his quarters and needed assistance. There was a small washroom connected to the berthroom, off to the right, with a sink, mirror, and small shower.

Sitting down on the berth, Bluestreak stares down at his hands. He had just been released from his latest therapy session with Rung, the resident psychiatrist, and the sessions always left him feeling drained. Facing his internal demons was never easy.

Bluestreak mentally went through a list. He had eaten recently, and had sufficient rest... bathing. He hadn’t washed today, that must be the next task. He rubs his face slowly with both hands, trying to convince himself to stand up, to get moving... it would be so easy to just lay down and sleep...

Several minutes pass before he finally lowers his hands to his lap. When he finally opens his eyes, Bluestreak’s breath catches in his throat. His hands were covered in hot, sticky energon, dripping from his fingertips to the floor, and he screws his eyes shut. Bullets flash by his helm and doorwings, and he drops to the ground to become a smaller target. Flattening his doorwings down as much as he can, Bluestreak reaches for his rifle, but it’s too far away. He covers his helm with his hands and waits for the bullets to stop coming. There are too many, they aren’t stopping-

Opening his eyes, Bluestreak finds himself next to the berth, pressed to the floor and holding his helm. Tearing his hands away, he finds them clean. Clean?

Slowly standing up, Bluestreak shivers, allowing his doorwings to flare open again. They reaffirm what his optics are seeing; the room is empty, there are no bullets, and he is safe.

Entering the washroom, Bluestreak turns the sink on, letting the bowl fill with water before he bends over and splashes it on his face. The shocking cold of the water is stimulating, and when he finally straightens he stares at himself in the mirror. His own wide eyes look back at him, and Bluestreak watches the water trickle down his face. Something dark catches his eye, and he stares into the mirror at a dark spot behind his doorwings. It grows and grows until there is a large shadow standing behind him, reflected in the mirror. Shrieking in terror, Bluestreak backpedals away from the mirror, tripping on the lip of the shower’s retaining wall and falling back into the shower. His optics are glued to the mirror, watching as the shadow materializes at the edge of the mirror before spilling out, filling the sink with smoky shadow.

“Bluestreak? Blue, are you okay?” comes Rung’s voice from the monitor on the nightstand. “Blue, I’m coming to check on you.”

The shadow begins crawling towards him, and Bluestreak launches out of the shower, sprinting into the berthroom where he grabs his rifle by the door. Throwing himself across the berth, Bluestreak presses himself up against the far wall, loading the rifle with a confident clack of sliding metal. Settling the rifle against his shoulder, Bluestreak aims towards the washroom, placing his index finger on the trigger. The shadow rises up in the doorway, making its way towards him. Bluestreak breathes in and out at a steady rate, the rifle in his hands helping to keep him focused. The shadow slows in its path, as Bluestreak carefully aims with the rifle, seeking out any weakness he could perceive. The door to his quarters opens, and a pair of blue optics form in the shadow. At the appearance of the eyes, Bluestreak deftly shifts the rifle’s position and targets them. When the shot is lined up, he squeezes the trigger.


End file.
